


see this night through

by starblessed



Category: The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: F/M, Non-Explicit Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, no slutshaming here folks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 22:19:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13645587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: The arms around her are nothis, but if Anne closes her eyes, they are good enough.





	see this night through

**Author's Note:**

> written for a tumblr prompt: "what if post rewrite the stars or just some time before they’re together, anne tries to get over phillip with some other guy and what her and phillip’s reactions to that would be?"

She tells herself that it’s okay.

It’s not a betrayal, she insists to her own guilty mind. It is not wrong, not unnatural, not obscene to have another man’s hands on her body. It is not wrong to allow someone else to touch her, when the only man she really wants to touch her cannot.

This is just the way it is, when you’re an adult in love with someone you can’t have.

So Anne immerses herself in the sensation, and allows it to swell over her head. She sinks in it; she drowns. The feeling is glorious.

His hands on her thighs are firm and solid. His lips anchor her in one place, keeping her mind from wandering. He makes it impossible to slip out of this moment and into another. He is a pulse of life beneath her, delightfully real, and attainable in all the ways _he_ is not.

They rock back and forth in a frantic, pulsing rhythm. When they reach their end, it is glorious.

Anne doesn’t leave until the sun is just beginning to brighten the sky outside the nearby window. It was not that she wanted to stay the night; she simply had no reason to go. Now, though, she knows she must. People will talk if she is not in her own bed by sunrise. (Not her brother, of course, because W.D. knows her too well, and he has his own vices — but people will _always_ talk.) Anne wants to avoid gossip, if at all possible.

She doesn’t think she wakes him until she is pulling a jacket around her shoulders and his voice rumbles from behind her. “Going already?”

She turns her head. Constantine is lying on his side, head propped up against a heavily-inked arm. His eyes study her with that same spark of knowing mischief they always seem to have. His accent sounds thicker in the early morning.

“Sun’s coming up,” she replies. There is no affection in her tone. Neither of them are under any illusions as to what last night was. “I’ve gotta get back.”

Constantine sighs and smacks his lips. The mattress creaks under him as he shifts, tucking his arms behind his head. “Alright then. See you at rehearsal this afternoon?”

Anne has her hand on the doorknob, but pauses. Of course they’ll see each other this afternoon. They’re both freaks, after all. The circus is the only place that will welcome them. It is the only place they will ever truly be free — there, and in he safety of the dark.

“Sure,” she replies, and slips out the door.

* * *

She is convinced Phillip can see it the next time he looks at her.

It is as if Constantine’s touch has left a brand on her skin, visible to all but her. Phillip gazes at her, and she swears she sees hurt in his blue eyes — a flicker of betrayal he will not express in words. Then he blinks, and it’s gone, and Anne is positive she was imagining it all along.

She knows who she loves. She also knows that she can’t have him.

So when she kisses Constantine again that night, in the secluded wings of the theatre after the show, she’s got her eyes shut. It’s easy to pretend when she isn’t looking. It’s easy to imagine that there is a fair hand cupping her face, clever eyes and a gentle smile, perfectly coiffed brown hair. It is easy to imagine the lips pressed against hers belong to Phillip.

Then she hears a soft “oh,” and her heart leaps into her throat.

When she pulls away, Phillip is gaping up at the two of them. Within seconds, he turns away. “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t know — I didn’t mean to. Sorry.”

There’s the hurt in his voice, dripping and weighing down every word. He sets off without another glance, ringmaster’s boots clicking across the floor. Anne stares after him with wide eyes. Her hands are still on Constantine’s chest. Slowly, he locks his own around her wrists and pushes her away.

When she turns to Constantine, there is nothing but understanding in his face. Like it’s always been — no illusions. They both understand what their agreement is. “Go to him,” he urges. “He is the one you want.”

Anne doesn’t hesitate.

It’s harder to catch up to Phillip in her performance boots, but she’s become an expert in walking in the damn monsters by now; running is a perilous jog in the park. When she grabs him and spins him around, he does not want to meet her eyes. She forces him anyway; to him, she will always be magnetic. (Just as she cannot tear her gaze from him whenever they are in the same room.)

“It isn’t like that,” she swears. “There’s nothing there. No love.”

“It’s not my place, Anne,” Phillip insists, shaking his head. “Whatever you need… it’s up to you.”

Yet hurt still radiates from his downcast eyes. Anne blurts out the only thing she can think of. “I pretend that it’s you.”

His eyes widen. He stares at her for a long moment, mouth agape, totally silent. She has stolen the words from his throat, and it gives her no pleasure. She does not want to hurt him; she is already hurting herself.

Then, slowly, he cups her face. When he leans down, she cannot find the willpower to pull away.

Their lips meet like a collision of stars. Anne sees them burst behind her closed eyelids, an explosion of light and energy so blinding that it takes her breath away. It courses through her. Every vein in her body feels electrified, and a wave of heat rolls over her.

When their lips part, she has to force her head to stop spinning.

Slowly, Phillip detaches himself from her. He takes a few steps back, brows furrowed. The flicker of a challenge in his eyes. “Now,” he declares, “you won’t be able to imagine anymore. You know what the real thing is like.”

He’s gone before she can reply. She closes his eyes and presses a hand over her lips, relishing the memory of his pressure for just a while longer.

That, she decides, can simply not be the last time she experiences Phillip Carlyle’s kiss. No fantasy can ever compare.


End file.
